


A Wealth I Could Not Hope to Own

by orphan_account



Category: Eleanor & Park - Rainbow Rowell, X-Men First Class (2011)
Genre: Alex is Mouse, Angst, Bullied Charles, But only in comics, Charles is somewhat depressed, Cherik - Freeform, Child Abuse, Eleanor and Park AU, Emma is Tina, Erik Does Know Karate Pietro, Fluff, Hank is Ben, I Will Go Down With This Ship, It's going to be weird, Kurt is Richie, Kurt is a terrible stepfather-what's new, Let's hope Erik fixes that, M/M, Multi, Protective Erik, Raven is Maisie, Scott is Lil' Richie, Sebastian is Steve, This is fun to write, X-Men exist, well kinda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4527693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new boy is a pale, freckly, skinny kid with the messiest hair Erik has ever seen. He wears sweaters when it's seventy and writes on his arm with his finger when he's bored, like he's tracing constellations between his freckles. He has an English accent and seems mad all the time, but Erik can't tell what about. His eyes are bluer than anything he's ever seen, like the Caribbean oceans, the sky on a summer's day and a neon strobe light mixed together. Erik wants to hate him, but he can't.</p><p>.....</p><p> </p><p>The German kid next to him is probably popular. He has a Walkman with hundreds of songs, and he knows that because Charles has heard them all through his headphones because he turns it up so loud. He has green eyes that look like the dead bushes in front of his house and a personality to match. Or, at least, that's because they only talked once. He smells likes citrus, probably because of his shampoo, and he brings comics everyday. Charles finds himself staring at them sometimes. Charles wants to ignore him.</p><p>Neither of them get what they want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well
> 
> I think some of you hate me
> 
> But I think that's okay
> 
> Let's try this again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> XTC is no good for drowning out the shouting about karate in the back of the bus.
> 
> That was the only thing on Erik's mind... Until the new boy, that is.

He'd stopped trying to bring him back.

He only came back when Erik was at rock bottom, in dreams and lies and terribly painful déjà vu that took Erik's breath away and gave him the illusion that his heart was beating again.

For instance, he would be driving to work and he sees a head of chocolate-colored curls and pale freckled skin, and he would almost go into cardiac arrest and felt himself hyperventilate... Until he saw that the boy was wearing a Sex Pistols t-shirt and was smoking a cigarette.

Charles hated the Sex Pistols and planned to be a doctor.

Charles hadn't loved him, but Erik didn't blame him. They both knew the consequences of love; Charles even more so.

"I love you." Erik had whispered to him once.

"I know," Charles had answered him back quietly.

"Do you... Do you..." Erik had sighed, pulling him closer. "Do you love me?"

"I'm not sure I'm capable of doing so. And I'm not exactly the kind of person you want love from."

Except he was, and Erik had said so many times. Yet Charles had never seemed to understand, or he just chose not to.

Charles had ruined everything.

Charles, gone.

He'd stopped trying to bring him back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**ERIK**

 

XTC was no good for drowning out the noise of Sebastian and his cronies yelling about karate. There was always  _something_ , and today it had to be about something Erik knew. This was bad because if Sebastian needed to prove a point, he went straight to his human karate "expert". Meaning Erik.

Tomorrow, he was bringing a tape with as much screaming, cymbal crashing and yelling as his ears could take and more. Or maybe, he would make a special bus tape that just had a continuous loop of a machine gun or a war or something. That should be enough, right?

Probably not, but all the same.

"That's not a real thing, jackass!" shouted somebody in the back of the bus.

"It fucking is! Drunken Monkey style man, you can kill someone with that shit!" Sebastian roared. Erik pressed his headphones into his ears so much that it hurt.

"You're full of shit, Seb." Azazel laughed, which earned him a whack to the head. As if the idiot didn't have enough brain damage as it was.

 _"You_ _'_ re full of shit." Sebastian retorted, and Erik was pretty sure that somehow got a round of laughter. "Erik! Hey, Erik."

Erik, of course, ignored him. That was about eighty percent of having Sebastian as your neighbor. The other twenty was keeping your head down...

Which Erik had momentarily forgotten.

A paper ball hit him in the back of the head.

"Those were my Human Growth and Development notes, you cocksucker!" Emma screeched. A chorus of "ooh's"and "Seb you rascal!'s" rang out from the entire back seat. Erik wished there was a brick wall he could smash his head against.

"Oh, I'm sorry baby," cooed Sebastian, draping his arm around Emma's shoulders, "I'll teach you _all_ about Human Growth and Development-what do you need to know?"

"Teach her Drunken Monkey style!" Janos crowed.

"Oi! _Erik!"_ Sebastian shouted again. Erik pulled out his headphones and poked his head above the seat.

Sebastian was, of course, reigning the back seat with his head of floppy hair almost touching the ceiling. The guy was practically 6'7" and had to shave almost every day to ensure that he wouldn't grow a full beard overnight. Emma was sitting next to him, or more accurately, on his lap. In comparison, she was like an ant next to Godzilla. Erik was half-sure that's why she was with him, anyway.

Once this guy gave Sebastian shit about getting Emma pregnant, saying that their baby would probably be too big for her 5'0" frame. "It'll bust out of her stomach, like in _Aliens_ ," the guy had said. Sebastian had broken his little finger punching the guy in the nose.

"Erik, do you know what Drunken Monkey style is?" Sebastian asked.

"No."

"But it exists, right?"

"I guess I've heard of it..." Erik said.

"See? I fucking told you Azazel!" screeched Sebastian, and Azazel gave him the finger.

"What the fuck does Lehnsherr know about kung fu?" Azazel spat venomously.

"I don't know. He's foreign, so. He knows stuff, I guess," Sebastian shrugged, causing Erik to roll his eyes. Just because he was German _didn't_ mean that he knew everything about other countries.

"That's fucking racist, man." Janos said.

"Yeah, says the guy who just last week called me Polish," Azazel snickered.

"That isn't racist! I just couldn't tell the difference between your Russian accent and a Polish accent," said Janos defensively. "Besides, I'm foreign too! Spanish." he bragged, puffing his chest out like he had won an award for being Hispanic. Azazel snorted.

"Yeah, and Drunken Monkey style is a thing."

"I already fucking told you! It's real!" Sebastian roared.

"Yeah, whatever man. Erik just doesn't wanna get beaten up," Azazel retorted soundly. "Isn't that right, Lehnshie?"

"Fuck off, whistle-dick," hissed Erik.

"I rest my case," said Azazel.

"He's German," Emma said.

"What? Who is?" Sebastian asked confusedly.

"Erik. He's German."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. All I care about is that I'm right and tomato-face is wrong." Sebastian said. Erik, sensing the conversation was over, slid back into his seat and pushed his headphones back in. Suddenly, the bus stopped in a place it normally didn't. _Oh no,_ he thought.

He saw the new boy at the same time as everybody else. He was standing next to the first available seat, which was occupied by a freshman with his bag in the empty space and his nose turned up and away. As he moved farther down the aisle, more and more of him came into sight. First came his Vans, which were black and obviously worn from years of use, then slacks that didn't go with said shoes and a huge purple _-_ _purple_ _-_ cardigan that almost went to his lower thighs. He was a complete fashion disaster. His hair, Jesus Christ, was like someone had decided to dump mahogany brown curls on his head and see where that went. What drew most attention were his eyes, which were inhumanly blue, like looking into a neon light.

Someone laughed in the back. Probably Emma-she lived for this shit.

He moved further down the aisle, and people were scooting to the outsides of their seats. People who had empty seats had a tense air about them like soldiers going into battle. Even Erik felt his jaw clench.

The bus started moving again, and when it stopped more people got on.

"Hey boy, sit down!" the bus driver yelled. The boy turned around and bit his lip nervously.

The problem was, everyone already had their own seats. They'd all claimed them on the first day of school, which the new boy hadn't been present for. The bus lurched again.

"Sit _down_ _!"_ the bus driver reiterated, somehow louder. The boy tentatively moved down the aisle, and relief flashed on his face as he saw an empty seat. He hurried towards it.

"You can't sit there," Emma called out. He turned his head.

"Why not?" he asked, and his voice was fucking _English-accented._ This guy was as good as dead.

"Because that's Jean's seat," said Emma.

"Well, I have to sit somewhere..." he murmured, his voice cool, calm and still English. Erik felt embarrassed, for some reason. _Cut that out,_ he told himself.

"SIT DOWN BOY, OR I WILL MAKE YOU!" the bus driver roared. Erik could _feel_ Sebastian and Azazel licking their chops in anticipation.

And even before it registered as an idea, Erik was scooting over to the window. "Sit down."

The boy just fucking looked at him. "Jesus-fuck," Erik hissed. "Sit _down_ _."_

Blue-Eyes nodded and scurried over to the empty space and said nothing-thank god, he didn't thank him or anything-and left as much space as humanly possible between them.

Erik looked out the window and waited for the world of Erik Lehnsherr Is A Fucking Retarded Moron to hit the fan.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles considers his transportation from school.
> 
> There aren't many.
> 
> Which means, either he gets lost and probably mugged, or he has to sit down next to the German kid again.
> 
> Well, a mugging isn't such a bad alternative.

 

**CHARLES**

 

 

Charles formulated a transportation pros and cons list in his head:

 

          1. Call his mom to come and pick him up. Pros: lots. Cons: his mom was probably tending to Kurt and she didn't have a car. Or a phone.

 

          2. Walk home. Pros: peace and quiet, time to himself, exercise, color in his cheeks. Cons: he didn't know even the general direction in which he was supposed to start walking and when to stop. He also hadn't memorized his address yet.

 

          3. Call his dad. (Ha.)

 

          4. Call his grandmother and wish that a dead person could pick up the phone.

 

He was sitting in front of the row of buses, his in the back: No. 666.

As if there wasn't enough proof that the bus was Hell already.

Even if Charles could avoid the bus today, even if he could somehow control the minds of the devil-spawn in the back, he was going to have to ride the bus tomorrow and deal with the demons of Hell. And it wasn't like they were going to suddenly be best friends with him the next day, either. The blonde girl with the monstrous hair, among others, acted like they had been hired to kill him in their past life/lives.

He couldn't tell if the German kid who let him sit down was one of them, or whether he was just stupid. (Not like an imbecilic stupid-he was in two of Charles' honors classes.)

His mom had insisted him on taking honors when she saw his grades last year. Well, that can't possibly be his fault when he's forced to move in with a cave troll who hits his mom and calls him a "soft good-for-nothing pussy". Charles spent more time on hiding his bruises and keeping angry tears in than finding 'x' and learning about the differences between Democrats and Republicans. "This can't be a surprise to you, Mrs. Marko," the counselor had said. Charles wanted to correct him and say, "It's Mrs. _Xavier,"_ but he didn't.

Charles couldn't tell his mom about the bus situation anyways, because he'd already agreed he'd take it.

"Kurt said he'd drive you," Sharon had said while helping him unpack and glancing around the house simultaneously with a nervous look in her eyes. Charles wondered if that was talent or an action of necessity. "It's on his way to work."

"Is he going to make me ride in the back of the truck?" Charles asked, half sarcastically and half truthfully.

"He's trying to make peace, Charles. You'd promise you'd try." his mom practically pleaded. _Yeah, that was because you were crying and your face was littered with bruises,_ he thought. _I'm pretty sur_ _e I would've agreed to jump off a five-hundred foot cliff at that point._

"I think I'd be better at making peace from a distance. Preferably fifty miles away. I guess I could send a letter once in awhile." Charles said quietly.

 _"Charles._ You promised you'd be a part of this family," whispered Sharon.

"I'm  _already_ a part of this family. I'm like a tenant that's forced to live here and pay rent." groaned Charles. He immediately regretted saying it, because his mom's beautiful face contorted into something he thought only Kurt could do to her: betrayal.

"Charles, _please_ _."_ she whispered. Charles would do anything for his mother, but not this. Not for Kurt. The man was a monster: he screamed at his little sister Raven, he beat his mother and him, he kicked Hank around until he did what he wanted and even slapped his five-year old brother Alex for going to the bathroom while everyone was asleep. Fortunately, he didn't touch Lil' Scottie, but Charles still tensed up whenever he held the baby.

"I'll just ride the bus," Charles said. "I can meet new people... And stuff."

 _Bloody idiot,_ Charles thought now. _You're a g_ _igantic, out-of-proportion bloody fucking_ idiot.

His bus was going to leave soon. A few of them had already started pulling out of the lot. Somebody ran down the steps and tripped on his bag. He began to pull it away and say sorry, but then he saw it was the German kid. He frowned at Charles, and Charles glared at him, the way Raven said made you think you were looking into blue optic blasts. He stared for a second, then shook his head and sprinted away.

 _Oh fine,_ Charles thought. _The children of Hell shan't go hungry on my watch._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that moment when a little child comes over to your house and starts killing butterflies?
> 
> I do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik really doesn't want to have to sit next to the new boy. He has to get away.
> 
> But how?

 

**ERIK**

 

He didn't talk to him on the ride home. Erik was incredibly grateful for that. After the death glare he had given him on the steps, Erik was definitely going to reconsider the Hey, Let's Put Aside Our Differences and Be Friends option. Which, by the way, had never existed.

Erik had been thinking all day of how to get rid of him. He'd have to switch seats. That was the only answer, right? But which seat? And more importantly, how was this going to get past Sebastian? Though he had dropped it this morning, he might pick it back up if it continues. It was only a matter of time before _someone_ said something, and Erik bet all his money that the first person would be Sebastian Fucking Shaw.

Erik had expected Sebastian to start on him as soon as the new boy sat down, but he went right back to talking about kung fu or whatever that random shit was. Erik, in case you were wondering, knew plenty about martial arts. Because his father thought it best for him to know offensive and defensive strategies. He and his little brother, Sean, had been taking taekwondo since they could walk, and his dad had insisted on them the _Karate Kid_ every night even before that. Erik was seemingly interested, but mostly because he hated disappointing his dad. Jakob Lehnsherr had a death glare that was almost as scary as the new boy's, and half as blue. His mother, Edie, couldn't hurt a fly. His dad had met her on a trip to Germany, they fell in love, had a kid and brought his dad's kid from another marriage with them. His mom still had her accent, which his dad absolutely loved, and they acted like a TV sitcom.

Yep.

Switch seats, though... How...

It was possible that he could move up front with the freshmen, but that would be an exceptional show of weakness. And, for some reason, he almost hated the idea of having the little mouse of a sophomore sitting in the back all by himself.

He hated himself for thinking like this.

If his dad knew, he'd pull the "You Are A Lehnsherr" speech. If his grandmother knew, she'd smack him upside the head. _Where are your manners, Erik?_ she'd say. _Is that any way to treat someone who is so obviously down on their luck?_

Erik, if it wasn't apparent, didn't have much luck-or status-to spare on dumb Blue-Eyes. He had just enough to be able to talk back to Sebastian and stay out of trouble. Mainly the latter.

He knew it was shitty, but he was glad people like Blue-Eyes existed. Because if it wasn't them, then it was someone else. And if it wasn't someone else, it was him.

Sebastian had let it go. For now.

Erik could hear Dahlia Lehnsherr again. _Seriously son, you're giving yourself a stomachache because you did something nice for someone else while people were watching?_

It wasn't even _that_ nice, Erik thought. All he'd done was let the boy sit down. It was like giving a starving person food that they themselves had bought. But when he showed up in English class, it was like he was there to haunt him...

"Charles," Mr. Allerdyce said. "What a powerful name. A king's name, you know."

"It's the name of that serial killer," somebody behind Erik whispered, and another person giggled. The boy's cheeks flushed.

Mr. Allerdyce gestured to a vacant desk up front-the desk nobody wanted. It was closest to Mr. Allerdyce's desk and farthest from the door.

"We're going to be reading poetry today, Charles," Mr. Allerdyce explained. "Would you care to start us off?"

Blue-Eyes looked at him like he hoped he was kidding, but Mr. Allerdyce almost never was. He accepted defeat and sat down.

Mr. Allerdyce opened up a book, turned to a page and pointed. "Start there. I'll tell you when to stop." Blue-Eyes sighed, very, very quietly, then began.

"I had been hungry all the years," he read. Some kids laughed. Only Mr. Allerdyce made an anorexic-looking kid read a poem about food.

"I had been hungry all the years," he said again, louder this time.

 

My noon had come, to dine

I, trembling, drew the table near

And touched the curious wine.

T'was this on tables I had seen,

When turning, hungry, lone

I looked in windows, for the wealth

I could not hope to own.

 

Mr. Allerdyce didn't stop him, so he read the whole poem. Erik found himself entranced against his will. It was the same cool and defiant voice he'd used on Emma, like he was accusing Mr. Allerydyce of an injustice.

"That was wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!" Mr. Allerdyce exclaimed when he was done. "I hope you'll stay with us, Charles, at least until _Medea_. That is a voice that arrives on a chariot drawn by dragons."

When the boy showed up in history, Ms. MacTaggert didn't make a scene. But she did say, "Ah. Charles VII the Victorious," when he handed her his paperwork. He sat a few rows ahead of Erik and as far as he could tell, spent the entire period staring out the window.

Erik couldn't find a way to get rid of him on the bus, either. He just pushed his headphones in, turned the volume all the way up and averted his eyes as he sat down.

Thank the Lords of Erik's very limited luck reserves that he didn't try to talk to him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles goes home.
> 
> He is met with a family he doesn't recognize.

 

**CHARLES**

 

 

Charles got home before the rest of the kids, thank God. He wasn't ready to see them again. Last night had been a huge disappointment. Charles had fantasized so much about coming home, and their reactions-they hadn't seen him in a year, after all-and he was met with only a few sparing glances. He had half-expected there to be a parade in his honor or something, but when he walked in the door it was like his siblings didn't recognize him.

Hank just flicked his eyes to him and away, and Raven... Raven was sitting in Kurt's lap. _In his lap_. It would've made Charles turn heel out the door if he hadn't promised his mom that he'd be on his best behavior for the rest of his life.

Only Alex ran to hug Charles. Alex, if Charles was to rank his siblings in order of personal importance, was second to Raven, and Hank was third and Lil' Scottie was last. Mostly because he had some of Kurt's blood pumping through his veins. Charles almost believed that Lil' Scottie was going to be a terrible person with his mother's gorgeous looks, or the other way around with monstrous features and a dear with an addiction to alcohol. Poor Scott. He's destined to absolutely nothing.

"Hey Havok," he said. That's what they all called Alex, and it fit. He wreaked havoc wherever he went, but they all said it with a 'k' because that was how Alex spelled it.

"Look Dad, it's Charles!" Alex said. "Do you remember Charles?"

Kurt pretended not to hear, though it was obvious that he did because of the tell-tale vein popping out of his neck. Charles gritted his teeth as he looked down at Raven. She was watching and sucking her thumb... Something Charles hadn't seen her do in years. She was eight now, but with her right thumb in her mouth she looked like a toddler.

The baby wouldn't remember Charles at all, but he didn't have a problem with that at all. Kurt's blood in his veins, mind. He'd be two, but there he was, next to Hank. Hank was eleven. He stared at the wall behind the TV.

Charles was somewhat concerned for Hank, he lacked social skills and was always in his own world of science and quantum physics that exceeded that of someone his age. But still, Charles knew that once he hit high school he was almost worse off than _him._

His mom carried the duffel bag with Charles' stuff in into a bedroom off the living room, and Charles followed behind her, turning for a second to glare at the back of Kurt's head when he saw a blossoming bruise on her shoulder.

The room was tiny, just enough for a dresser and some bunk beds. Alex ran in the door behind them. "You get the top bunk," he said, "and Hank has to sleep on the floor with me. Mom already told us, and he started to cry. The bozo." he murmured the last part under his breath.

"Alexander William Marko!" his mother exclaimed. Charles and Alex both winced at the use of Kurt's last name. His mother didn't notice, of course. "We do not call our siblings bozos!"

"But what if they _are_ _?_ _"_ Alex countered soundly.

"The only bozo here is the monster in the living room," Charles muttered. Sharon didn't hear that, but Alex did, and he giggled.

"What was that, Charles?"

"I said the only person you can call a bozo is yourself," said Charles quickly. Sharon nodded stiffly.

"Don't worry about the room, dear. We're all readjusting. It'll take time, but it'll happen." Sharon said softly, reassuringly. The only person she was reassuring was herself, really. Charles was never going to adjust, or even _try_ to adjust. There wasn't even room to readjust in this tiny broom-cupboard of a living space.

When he woke up in the middle of the night, he gazed out on the floor where all three of his brothers were sleeping. Raven slept in the bunk under him. She was sound asleep, or was trying to be. He heard a ragged sob that suggested otherwise.

"Hey," he whispered, for Kurt was sleeping in the room just across the claustrophobic hallway. Raven sniffed.

"Charles?"

"Yeah, it's me," he replied softly. "You okay?"

"Mhm. Just... Allergies," she said.

"You don't have allergies, Raven. I would've remembered."

"Of course you would've. You remember everything."

"Not everything..."

"What's my favorite color? When's mom's birthday? When did she and Dad get married? What year did the Declaration of Independence get signed?" she said, rapidly firing questions.

"Turquoise with a hint of darker blue, April twenty-third 1956, October nineteenth 1975, 1776." Charles responded immediately. He blushed and reached his hand down and felt Raven grab it. "I guess you're right."

"As always." Raven said snarkily. Charles smiled.

"I see some things never change."

But the one thing he didn't want to change was the thing that did.

 

* * *

 

 

When he got home from school, Charles let himself in with his new key. The house was somehow even _more_ depressing in daylight-dingy, bare, dusty-but at least Charles had the place, and his mother, to himself.

It was bizarre to see his mom, just standing there, in the kitchen, without a bottle. It was... normal? Was that even a thing in Charles' life anymore? She was making soup, chopping onions. Charles felt like crying, and not because of the onions.

"How was school?" his mother asked.

"Alright," Charles replied.

"Did you have a good first day?"

"I mean, it's school." Charles said, setting his bag down on the table. Sharon sighed. "But yeah, it was good." he said quickly.

"Will you have a lot of catching up to do? How are your honors classes?"

"They kind of just started. And they're fine."

His mom wiped her hands on the back of her faded jeans and tucked some blonde hair behind her ear, and Charles was struck, for the millionth time, by how beautiful his mother was.

When Charles was a little boy, he'd thought his mom was like a princess in a fairy tale that she would read him sometimes before he went to bed.

But not a princess, because princesses were just pretty. Charles' mom was stunning, more like Aphrodite than Sleeping Beauty. She had blonde hair that was always in a pony-tail, or she did until recently, and was short and skinny with broad, powerful shoulders and an elegant waist. (Charles knew it was wrong to think these kind of things about family members, but she was absolutely gorgeous.) All her bones had a purpose, like they were there for more than just to hold her up and be a place for skin and muscle to attach to; they were there to make a point.

She had a strong nose and a sharp chin, and her cheekbones were high and thick. They accentuated her eyes, which were just a slightly greener version of her son's. Charles liked hers better; they were nicer, more inviting. His drove people away when they looked into them. The German kid being one of many.

When you look at Charles' mom, you'd think she'd be an actress in Hollywood, being co-stars with Michelle Pfeiffer and Meryl Streep. Once upon a time, she was getting there. Then she had Charles, married his dad and settled down to a domestic life. The domestic life ended about two years ago when they divorced.

Some people said that Charles looked like his mother, in a masculine way. Maybe he did, but not enough. Whereas his mother was sharp and defined, Charles was smudged like someone tried to erase something they drew in marker right after they drew it. Like they were looking at his mother through a gender-bending fish tank.

"I have something to show you," his mom said, covering the soup with the pot cover, "but I didn't want to do it in front of the little kids. C'mere."

Charles followed her into the kid's bedroom. Her mom opened the closet and took out stacks of towels and sheets and a laundry basket full of socks.

"I couldn't bring your things when we moved," she said. "Obviously we don't have as much space now, but I could bring some of it."

She handed Charles the bag. "I'm sorry about the rest."

Charles had assumed that Kurt had thrown all of her stuff in the trash a year ago, ten seconds after he'd kicked him to the curb. He took the bag in his arms, wincing when the sharp edge of a hardcover book jabbed him in the abdomen. "It's okay Mom," he said, "Thanks."

His mom ruffled his hair for a second. "The kids will be home in about half an hour, twenty minutes, maybe. We'll eat at about four-thirty. I like to have everything settled before Kurt comes home."

Charles nodded. When his mother walked away he sat down and opened the black plastic garbage bag.

The first thing he recognized were the small notebooks he drew in. He smiled and laid the four out in front of him. All said: Property of Charles F. Xavier. It had been years since he'd written in them, but it was good to see them there.

Under the notebooks were the novels, a dozen or so, and his mother must've grabbed them randomly. _Pride and Prejudice_ had made it, but  _Of Mice and Men_ hadn't. He was happy to see  _A Wrinkle in Time_ and  _To Kill a Mockingbird._ It sucked that  _The Blade Runner_ had made it and  _The Fellowship of the Ring_ hadn't. And  _Charlotte's Web_ had made it but not _Lord of the Flies_ or _Watership_   _Down._

There were more papers in the bag. Charles had had a filing cabinet in his old room, and it looked like his mom had grabbed most of the folders.

He wondered where the rest of his stuff had gone. Not just his stuff, but everybody's. He wondered where Raven's paper dolls had gone, and Hank's science kit, and Alex's soccer ball, his mother's paintings and plants. If his grandma's ashes hadn't made it, he was going to take back his promise on being on his best behavior. His grandmother had been his best friend, always teaching him rage and serenity and telling him stories about his mother's childhood.

Maybe it was packed away somewhere, carefully. Maybe his mom thought the cave-troll house was just temporary.

Charles was still hoping that his mom was thinking Kurt was just temporary.

He looked at the bottom of the bag and his heart jumped. His Walkman was there, no batteries, but nonetheless unscathed. When there was a Walkman, there was a promise of music. He smiled.

There wasn't anything to do with his recovered belongings now that he had them, and there wasn't even room in the dresser for his clothes. So he set aside the Walkman under his pillow for safe-keeping and put everything else except for _To Kill a Mockingbird_ back in the garbage bag and shoved it back into the closet. He climbed onto his bunk and found a scraggly old cat sitting there. "Shoo," he hissed, shoving him. The cat leapt from the bunk and out the bedroom door.

Charles sighed, rubbing his hand over the cover of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ reverently. "But sometimes, we have to make the best of things, and the way we conduct ourselves when the chips are down."

Charles realized he didn't believe Atticus Finch.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poetry class. Short chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp

 

**ERIK**

 

Mr. Allerdyce was making them all memorize a poem, whatever poem they wanted. Well, whatever poem they picked. Erik was kind of excited, mostly because he could choose what he was searing into his brain.

"You're going to forget everything else I teach you," Mr. Allerdyce said, and it was almost like a lament. "Everything. Maybe you'll remember Beowulf fought a monster. Maybe you'll remember 'To be, or not to be,' is _Hamlet,_ not _Macbeth..._

"But everything else? Forget it."

He was slowly pacing up and down each aisle, seeming to freeze every student he passed for a good five seconds like he could paralyze them. Mr. Allerdyce loved this kind of stuff-theater in the round. Erik felt like he was going to melt into a puddle of liquid boredom. Mr. Allerdyce stopped next to Erik's chair and leaned in casually. Erik sat up, rigid, hiding his drawings with his elbow. He couldn't draw, anyway. Mr. Allerdyce almost silently tsked and moved on.

"You're going to memorize a poem," he continued, pausing for a moment to smile down at him like Gene Wilder in the chocolate factory. Erik shuddered. He'd been told that his smile was intimidating, that it had too many teeth, but Mr. Allerdyce's was scary. Mostly because it was almost passive-aggressive, like "Oh, you're not paying attention to my class and I _just told you_ that I want you to remember one thing, but that's alright. I'm not hurt."

Jesus, he needed to get out of here.

"Brains love poetry. It's sticky stuff. The Gorilla Glue of literature, I like to say. You're going to remember a poem, and five years from now, we're going to see each other at the cinema, and you'll say, 'Oh, Mr. Allerdyce, I still remember "The Road Not Taken"! Listen... _Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...'_

He moved on to the next desk and Erik relaxed.

"Nobody gets to choose that poem, by the way. I am sick and tired of it. And, no Shel Silverstein. While he is renowned, he is for children. We've graduated grade school. Choose an adult poem...

"Choose a _romantic_ poem, that's what I suggest. You could put it to good use in a few years." he looked over at Erik again. "Or, you could use it in a few months."

Erik couldn't help but feel Mr. Allerdyce was foreshadowing something. But _what?_

He walked over to the new boy's desk. "Of course, it's up to you. You may choose 'A Dream Deferred',-Charles?" He snapped his eyes into focus, so instead of glazed over blue marbles they were strobe lights. Erik swore that Mr. Allerdyce winced. "You may... You may choose it Charles," he said, averting his gaze to the bridge of his nose. "It's poignant and truth. But how often will you roll that one out?

"No. Choose a poem that speaks to you. Choose a poem that will help you speak to someone else. And I mean _speak_ , not just say words, but to touch the other person. That is the point of poetry." Mr. Allerdyce paused again, and looked to Erik again. "The point, my dear students, is to wake up that part of the mind that holds desire, sadness, joy, honesty, and above all, peace."

The new boy twitched uncomfortably at the last word.

"To open that part of the mind that says: " I understand. I know. I see." he continued, obviously finding a groove.

"To bring to light the inner you, the you that is buried beneath things you think make up your being. Well, I am here to say that they do not."

The bell rang, and Erik practically sprinted out of the classroom.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles gets teased by Sebastian in gym class and still has problems with that German kid.
> 
> Erik goes to taekwondo. (Pfffffft)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm alright with having Erik swim or do tennis or soccer or football, but KARATE? Um. It's weird, mostly because I have imagine him in a dobok and... Just... I don't even know. Let's get through this awkwardness together, shall we?
> 
> Also, for those of you who have read the book Eleanor and Park, you know that Park never goes to Eleanor's house.
> 
> That's because Park is a guy and Eleanor is a girl.
> 
> But... Charles is a guy and so is Erik. Which means, Charles isn't technically ringing any warning bells.
> 
> I think I'm going to make an angsty scene where Erik goes to Charles' house.
> 
> (Benefits of having a super hot boyfriend :P)
> 
> I don't even know which one I'm talking about when I say that... Doesn't matter anyway

 

**CHARLES**

 

"Watch it, faggot," Sebastian spat as he pushed Charles away to get on the bus. He pulled Tina behind him, and she smiled evilly.

He already had people calling him Bozo, which was ironic. He decided not to dwell on it, but he couldn't help but think about Hank. What would happen to _him_ _?_

Sebastian had a very colorful vocabulary when it came to insults for Charles. His favorite was faggot, but sometimes Charles had deal with Raghead, Charles Manson, and Professor Dipshit. He couldn't tell his mom, and he couldn't breathe one curse word to his siblings or else they'd be saying it, and Kurt would beat his ass into the next galaxy. He wanted to tell _someone_ though. If he didn't he was sure he was going to explode.

It made sense that Sebastian was in Charles' gym class-it was already an extension of Hell, and Sebastian was the devil. Azazel _looked_ like the devil, but all he did was follow Sebastian's orders. Sebastian had a whole army of demons, all in matching gym suits.

Everyone had matching gym suits, actually.

The girls had it worse, with red polyester onesies that zipped from the front. The boys had gym shirts and shorts, but the thing that Charles hated about being of the male gender at this school was that they rarely even _wore_ their shirts. He was skinny, every one of his ribs sticking out and hipbones that jutted farther than any other person's he'd ever met. Raven used to joke that you could cut yourself on them. His shoulders were even bonier. The problem was, his bones were fragile. He remembered his dad sighing as he brought Charles to the hospital for his fourth stress break.

"You have to drink milk, son," he had said. "It makes your bones stronger."

"I _do_ drink milk Dad. It's just genetics." Charles said with the air of a doctor. His father groaned.

"Must be your mother's, then."

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

His dad hadn't said anything after that.

"Shirtless isn't a good look for you, faggot," Sebastian laughed as he saw Charles' bare chest. Charles' whole body flushed pink with embarrassment as he crossed his arms over his torso. Every other boy laughed, even the kids that hated Sebastian.

After Sebastian pushed past him on the bus, Charles took his time getting on-but he still got on before that bloody German kid. It was awkward as hell to get out of the seat to let him in. And to make matters worse, every time they turned the corner or went over a pothole or did anything faster than usual, Charles ended up practically sitting in his lap, which was obviously painful because of Charles' fucking bony body.

Maybe someone would drop out or die or just bloody _disappear_ and Charles could move seats.

At least he didn't try to talk to him. Or look at him.

At least, he didn't _think_ he did. Charles didn't look at him either, so he didn't know. Well... Somewhat. He sometimes found his eyes wandering to the German kid's shoes. They were kind of... cool? Charles didn't use the term lightly, so he guessed it was the correct word. His shoes were cool then. Whatever that meant, anyway. He also found himself looking at what he was reading.

They were always comics.

Charles never brought anything to read on the bus, because it was more than possible for them to get stolen, and they were his most prized possessions.

(It was mostly because he didn't want anyone to catch him with his head down.)

 

* * *

 

 

**ERIK**

 

It felt wrong to sit next to him and not talk to him. Even if he was weird. Like he came from the early times in this century, or a dumpier version of Professor X. (Erik liked Professor X. He was pretty snarky for an older guy.)

He was weirder than any kid he'd ever met. Sometimes, he'd write stuff on his _arm_. With his finger. One day Erik tried reading it. He felt his heart jump when he saw:

_When you're very depressed, you can't even think._

He then remembered it was from _The Catcher in the Rye_. He felt himself exhale. How long had he been holding his breath? It didn't matter. He was relieved the kid wasn't marking himself or anything; he just didn't have a notebook. Erik remembered he had a blank one in his backpack. He grabbed it.

He inhaled deeply before handing it to him. Erik gently nudged him with the corner, and his eyes turned on, like two flashlights. Erik felt his throat go dry. "Take it," he whispered. "You don't have anything to write in, so. Take it."

The boy, damn him, paused. "I couldn't possibly... I don't need..."

"Fucking take it." Erik hissed. He realized that the second time he'd talked to him he had cursed at him. With the same curse word. The boy gently grabbed it. "God, I didn't mean-"

"I did need one. Thank you." he murmured. Erik tried to argue a little more, but he couldn't find the words.

"Welcome..." he said. The bus ride couldn't have gone fast enough after that.

"Dude, where's your dobok?"

He was trying to eat dinner in his room, mostly because he needed to clear his head and listen to The Smith's or something, but his little brother wouldn't let him. Sean stood in the doorway, already dressed for taekwondo and inhaling a piece of pizza from the night before.

"Dad's gonna be here, you know." Sean said nonchalantly to his pizza. "He's gonna shit if you don't get dressed."

His mom came behind him and thumped him upside his ginger head. "Don't curse, schmutzigen Mund." She had to reach up to do it. Sean was skinny and tall, like a lamppost. He was his father's son: Irish, ginger and humongous. He was already taller than their mom-and three inches taller than Erik.

Which fucking blew.

Erik pushed Sean out the door and slammed it. Sometimes, he wished he was Magneto, just so he could close it even harder by its hinges. But, since he wasn't, he just had to use his entire arm and hope it hit Sean.

He didn't _hate_ his brother, he just thoroughly disliked him.

Maybe he did hate him. Erik didn't know how to classify his emotions ninety-five percent of the time. He just put it down under hatred, disgust, annoyance or tolerance. Anything else was stored as not important and was forgotten. The new boy was stored under the annoyance/tolerance section of his emotions. Erik had to create that part.

Erik begrudgingly put his dobok on, and he realized he was going to have to wear Sean's hand-me-downs pretty soon. Whoop-dee-fucking-do.

(Erik also realized he used that word too much.)

"Edie?" his father called.

That's how his dad came home every night; like they were some not-so-perfect family in a comedy TV show. And his mom would always answer: "In here!" Except, it sounded different because of her accent. His mother would never stop sounding like she got her yesterday from Düsseldorf. Erik wondered if his mom kept it on purpose because he dad liked it, but she tried to fit in in so many other ways that it wouldn't make sense for her to keep it. If she could sound like she grew up in Omaha, she would. (Erik liked that she didn't.)

His dad steam-rolled into the kitchen and scooped his mom up like she weighed five pounds. They did this every night, too. Full-on make-out sessions in the kitchen, regardless of the company or where their kids were. It was like watching André the Giant make out with a fairy.

Erik grabbed his brother's sleeve. "C'mon, let's go." He cast one last sparing glance to his parents and shuddered, then went and waited in the Impala and tried to cleanse his mind.

 

**CHARLES**

 

He still couldn't get used to eating dinner so early.

When did this all start? In the old house, everyone had eaten together, even Kurt. Charles wasn't saying he _liked_ eating with the person that made his whole family's-except Lil' Scottie-living hell. But now it was like his mom wanted them out of the way before he got home.

Charles didn't understand how they were so poor, yet his mother could somehow _always_ have a bottle of something in her hand, a pack of beer for Kurt, food for them and steak-again, for Kurt. Most of the money was probably drained from their nutrition, so.

After dinner, Charles disappeared into his room to read or curse his life. He'd been doing it so often, he could sometimes do both at the same time. The little kids always went outside. Charles wouldn't dare go outside, mostly because Kurt could shoot him from behind while he wasn't looking. At least in his room he could see him coming and cuss him out before he did. That would leave him a little bit more satisfaction.

Charles climbed onto his bunk and shoved the gray cat off again. He flipped through his old books. He'd re-read and re-read them, but they still weren't boring. Maybe it was because they _couldn't_ be boring, because they were the only source of entertainment Charles had besides sleeping and wanting to eat.

One of the old notebooks contained letters from his old school. He hadn't even been able to say goodbye. His mom had pulled him out of school early. "Get your things, we're going home." she had said. Charles was beaming. That either meant things were better or Kurt was gone. It meant the same thing, anyway.

His mom had been so happy.

Charles had been so happy.

They went straight to North to get Charles registered in the school system, then stopped at Food 4 Less on the way home. His mom kept squeezing his hand, and he pretended not to notice the yellow and purple bruises on her wrists, and the hickey on her neck.

The bedroom door opened, and Raven came in carrying the cat.

"Mom wants you to leave the door open," she said, "for the breeze." Every window in the house was open, and there wasn't a breeze. Charles rolled his eyes but nodded. No doubt Kurt was complaining about the lack of AC. With the door open, he could see him sitting on the couch. Charles scooted over until he couldn't.

"What are you doing?" Raven asked.

"Reading."

"Can you read to me?"

"No."

"Can I at least come up?"

"No." For the moment, all Charles cared about was keeping the notebook the German kid had given him safe. It was a completely random gesture that suggested that he _was_ looking at him. The notebook had a blue plastic cover with the name _Erik M. Lehnsherr_ scribbled on Sharpie on the front. Charles wondered what the 'M' stood for.

"Please?"

"I said no, Raven. I wouldn't waste my voice." Charles said. He wanted to punish her for sitting on Kurt's lap earlier.

That wouldn't have happened before.

Before Kurt had kicked him out, all the kids were allied against him. Charles definitely hated him the most, and the most openly-but they were all on his side, Hank and Raven, even Havok. Havok used to steal Kurt's cigarettes and hide them. And Havok was the one they sent to knock on the door when they heard bed-springs...

When it was worse than that, when it was shouting or crying or broken glass, they'd huddle together on Charles' bed. (They'd all had their own bed at the old house.) When Havok cried into Charles' lap and Hank went all blank and dreamy, Raven and Charles would lock eyes.

"I hate him," Charles would hiss.

"I hate him so much, I wish he were dead," Raven would reply.

"I hope he falls off his ladder at work."

"I hope he gets run over by a truck."

"A ten-ton garbage truck."

"Yeah," Raven would growl, grinding her teeth. "and all the garbage would fall over his dead body."

"And then a bus will back over him."

"A hundred times."

"Then a bomber plane will obliterate his body from the face of the earth."

"What does obliterate mean?" Raven would ask then.

"Destroy."

"Oh." she would say. "Then obliterate is the exact word I would use. And I want to be the one flying the plane."

Raven put the cat back on the bed. "It likes to sleep up here." she said.

"Do you call him Dad, too?" Charles asked, almost desperate for a no.

"Well, he _is_ our Dad now." Raven said.

 

Charles woke up in the middle of the night. Richie had fallen asleep watching TV. He tiptoed around his sleeping siblings and shut the door.

Fuck the breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to with the comics.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik's friend Remy talks about asking a popular girl named Anna-Marie out.
> 
> Charles picks out a poem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyyyyy :D
> 
> I've read and re-read this book so many times, it is GLORIOUS.
> 
> I keep listening to Jon Bellion while I write this fic, it's kind of awesome :3
> 
> I need feedback!

 

**ERIK**

 

 

"I'm gonna ask Anna-Marie out," Remy said.

"Don't ask her out." Erik mumbled.

"Why not?" Remy asked, his Cajun accent just barely passing for a Southern accent. Barely.

They were sitting in the library, supposedly looking for poems to memorize. Remy had already picked out something romantic about the sun or some shit.

("Crass," Erik said. "It can't be crass," Remy argued. "It's three hundred years old.")

"Because she's Anna-Marie," Erik said. "You can't ask her out. Look at her, man."

Anna-Marie was sitting at another table with Ororo and Jean.

"Look at her," Remy sighed, "she's more stunnin' than a rose in the twilight."

"You sound so stupid right now, Remy. I hope you know that."

"What? It's romantic. And true." Remy said.

"But you got it from some book, right?"

"Maybe."

"Oh wait. You don't read books. Never mind." Erik said. Remy punched him on the arm.

"You only _wish_ you was like me." he said.

"I only wish you would stop acting like a deer in headlights around every single girl you meet." Erik retorted.

"Says the guy dat moons over the new kid!" Remy shouted.

"What the _fuck_ man! No I don't!" Erik growled, grabbing his trench-coat and pulling him down.

"Uh, yeah you do."

"Since when?" Erik hissed. Remy smiled and leaned on his elbow.

"Let me tell ya the story of a boy named Erik Magnus Lehnsherr," he said mystically, and Erik had to resist the urge to punch him the nose. "One day, a new boy came on the bus and Erik, being the kind and belligerent boy dat he is-"

"Belligerent means hostile, you dumbass. Stop saying words because they sound good."

"Whatever man. All I'm sayin' is dat you're totally crushin' on dat kid. And I don't even know why; he's a totally loser." Remy said. Erik felt a blush rise in his cheeks.

"What would you know? The only person you've kissed is your mother and a poster of Pamela Anderson." Erik said, and got up to find a poetry book.

"Erik, what about a double date? 'Cause I'm totally getting a girlfriend this year." Remy said as he got up to follow him.

Erik looked back at his friend. Remy _was_ kind of handsome, in a rugged kind of way. He had shoulder-length hair that he prided himself on, and a somewhat muscular build. Erik shrugged.

"Maybe, but not Anna-Marie."

"Why not?"

"Just..." Erik looked at his friend's attire. "Aim elsewhere."

"Screw dat, man. I'm startin' at the top. And I'm gettin' you someone too."

"You say someone like you know who it is." Erik said.

"Uh huh. And he's starin' at ya right now." Remy laughed, pointing at the new boy. His bangs kind of just hanging in his face as he stared in Erik's general direction. Erik groaned.

"No, he's not. He just does that." Erik said. To prove his point, he waved his hand. The boy didn't flinch. "See?"

"Yeah, I see. I'm totally gettin' you in the Impala with him."

"First off, _no._ Second off, fuck you. Third off, _I'm not gay._ Fourth off, he's weird, and fifth off, he hates me. I don't think even your matchmaking skills would make _that_ happen." Erik said, picking out a random book.

"You didn't say _you_ hated _him_ _."_ Remy teased, leaning on the bookcase. Erik felt his cheeks boil.

"I will personally send you to Jupiter with one single fucking drop kick if you don't stop."

"Denial is the first step, man. Then comes anger, then comes bargaining-"

"Those are the five stages of grief, you idiot! Just stop talking to me about this!"

"Have you even _seen_ the way you look at him?" Remy laughed.

"I think you have forgotten the idea of _eyes."_

"Whatever. You're totally going to end up in the back of the Impala with-"

"You know what? You should ask Anna-Marie out. That would be a spectacular idea."

 

 

**CHARLES**

 

Charles wasn't going to fight over the last E. E. Cummings book like it was the last loaf of bread at the grocery store. (He'd actually had to do that once. It was kind of awful.) He found an empty table in the Shakespearean era section and sat down with a huff. He already knew plenty of poems like the back of his hand, and he didn't really need to memorize another one. Though, it probably wouldn't hurt. It'd be something to do other than do homework and hate Kurt with the entirety of his being. He sighed and saw the German kid with that guy... What was his name? Lenny? Whatever, he was with that Cajun kid. Charles realized he seriously needed to stop categorizing people by their ethnicity or origin. 

That was the fucked up thing about this school. Effed up, Charles corrected himself. The only time he'd heard the n-word was on TV, _never_ out loud. But for the kids here, meaning Sebastian and Emma and all the demons at the back of the bus, it was the only way to classify an African-American person. They called gays faggots, Germans Nazis (except for the kid next to him, which made Charles suspect that he was one of them) girls broads, the more intellectual persons in this damn school nerds or, again, faggots. Anyone with a bigger IQ was immediately gay. Charles hated this school, except for his honors classes.

He wished he had honors gym, but he was too skinny and too fragile. They'd probably put him in remedial gym, if he were to be honest. He couldn't lift his torso off the ground without bruising, or do a handstand without spraining something. He cursed his mother's bones. Somehow, though, as much as Kurt hurt her, she never broke anything.

Charles wished he had honors everything. Everyone was nice there, or at least pretended to be for the teachers. Maybe they were rude and nasty on the inside, but they put on a cover that made them look like the kids who opened doors for other people or give up their bus seats to elderly women. Charles was one of those people, he'd been brought up that way, but it didn't seem to do much good here. If you opened a door for someone other than a teacher who _didn't_ hate their job, they gave you a dirty glare and walked on without murmuring thanks. Elderly women carried guns in their purses and pepper spray in their walkers, or something like that. At least, the ones Charles had met.

He wished his whole life was one big bloody honors class. He only had English, history and science honors, but he spent the rest of the day in a cesspool of idiots. Like literally, it moved so slow Charles could barely keep his eyes open to not pay attention. He should probably try harder in his classes so he wouldn't get kicked out of his honors classes.

He started to copy a poem into the German- _other_ boy's notebook that he felt dirty using. It was called "Caged Bird".

Sweet. It rhymed.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well THAT was a weird chapter


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was reading his comics.
> 
> The new kid was reading his comics. 
> 
> What. The. Eff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :P

**ERIK**

 

He was reading his comics. Like, faster than Erik was. Almost _more_ than Erik was.

At first Erik thought he was imagining it. He knew he was staring at him, in his own weird way, but whenever he looked up at him his head was down.

He then realized he was staring at his lap. Not in a gross or perverted way, because his eyes were moving, and that made him realize he was reading his comics. Erik didn't mind so much, he was just confused. Why couldn't he have said anything?

Because he wore over-sized cardigans and bandanas tied to his wrists, but not as a fashion statement, they almost seemed... practical. Like he was hiding something. He wrote song lyrics and old quotes from classic books into the notebook he gave him, looping it over over written words into some sort of art that Erik found himself reading. He saw his name on the cover, under "to a great mind, nothing is little" and "some things have to be believed to be seen".

Erik didn't know anyone with eyes so blue. (Or that many freckles. Or skin that pale.) The new boy's eyes were bluer than his mother's nails, which were like a turquoise-ish pigment. It made him look like he was drowning in tears.

That sounded bad, but Erik rather liked it. It made him look... alien, almost. Like Jean Grey or Storm when they use their mutations. Their eyes became completely white or black and the panel was almost bursting with power. If Erik had a say in his artistic talent, he'd want to be an artist for the X-comics. The first thing he'd do would be to change Wolverine's spandex suit. That thing just looked embarrassing.

But the new boy was reading his comics.

He was also wearing a blue cardigan, not as blue as his eyes though, with his hair tucked behind his ears and his lips-how were they so red?-parted as he read the dialogue. Erik almost smiled.

Erik felt like he should say something to him. Like, "Hey, are you reading my comics?" or "You're in my English class, right?" or "Excuse me." But he'd gone too long from cursing at him the second time that it would just be awkward. Hell, he was six inches away from him an hour a day. Thirty minutes there, thirty minutes back.

Erik didn't say anything. He just turned the pages slower and positioned it differently on his lap.

 

**CHARLES**

 

His mom looked tired when Charles got home. Crumbling, breaking down. Like the responsibility of being a perfect, attentive wife and not so much of a mother was wearing her down like a wrecking ball. No, a nail filer. Sometimes, the filer wouldn't do anything and his mother grew just a little bit, but it always came back. Charles hoped he'd never see the day it wore her down to the cuticle.

When the kids stormed in after school, his mom lost her long-lasting temper-Havok and Raven fighting over the TV-and pushed them out the back door. He heard a ragged sob from behind the screen and his heart sunk into the dirt of the ragged backyard. Charles was so startled to see that Kurt's dog, Tonya, was awake and advancing sleepily. The Rottweiler was named after Kurt's ex-wife. Apparently, Tonya was a man-eater-Tonya the dog-but Charles had only ever seen her eat and sleep. Yep, that was definitely Kurt Marko's dog. If she only barked and bit his mom repeatedly. But still, she was an extension of the man.

Charles didn't know what to do, even though he normally took a bath and did his homework at this time, because Kurt was gone and everything was for the most part, quiet. Not peaceful, just quiet. Like the waiting quiet, for a doctor or something. Except the doctor everyone was waiting for wanted to kill them.

He walked over to the swing set on the playground at the elementary school (which was like a hundred feet away) where Hank was playing with some toy cars. He was eleven, almost twelve, with the brain of his father. Brian Xavier was a genius, but he was too absorbed in his work to be a good father. Charles idolized him, but his dad didn't want him. (He had a good suspicion that his mom didn't either. But he wasn't going to tell her this unless he wanted to hurt her, and he didn't want to do anymore damage than Kurt already had.) Hank was lining up the cars and had a Sharpie in his hand, labeling two 'H' and one 'O'. _Havok will be furious_ _,_ Charles thought. Then, Hank proceeded to ram the cars together. Charles knew what he was doing: hydrogen and oxygen make water when put together, to put it loosely.

"You thirsty, Hank?" Charles joked. Hank smiled at his older brother's understanding.

"No," he said. "I'm just bored."

"Yeah..." Charles said, wrapping his hand around the rusted chain of the swing. "So am I." He sat down on the swing and gently pushed off.

"Do you call him Dad too?" he asked.

"Yeah... It's because he is, I guess." Hank replied with a shrug. Charles felt his cheeks boil.

"But he _isn't_ _._ He's our step-dad." he said.

"Well, I'm not going to call him Step-Dad. That would be weird," Hank murmured.

That was how Hank understood things. He thought everything was literal: he never laughed at jokes, he never understood metaphors or personifications and always got confused with hyperbole. Charles knew he was different, probably some social communication disorders, definitely a disconnect. It was scary to see him amongst other kids, like he was a little mouse in the midst of hungry tigers. He wanted to put him in a bubble with some food and books on physics and algebraic equations to shield him from reality.

If only.

"But he isn't actually your dad. You can feel the difference, right?" Charles said, almost pleading.

"I'm not exactly sure what that's supposed to feel like, to be honest," Hank said thoughtfully. Of course he didn't. "Do you know?"

A dad isn't supposed to beat your mother. A dad isn't supposed to yell at you for going to the bathroom in the middle of the night. A dad isn't supposed to smoke cigarettes with a baby in his arms.

"No." Charles said instead. He sighed, and looked towards the basketball court. Raven was with the baby, showing him off to other girls. His heart warmed as he saw a real smile on her face. Then he looked at Havok, who was playing with some kids who had a soccer ball. He had a real smile, too. Only Hank remained, and he looked like he was about to cry.

"We thought you were gone, when you left," he whispered. Charles internally groaned.

"Of ye of little faith," he replied.

"No, really. We thought you weren't coming back." Hank said again firmly. "Mom didn't even say anything about you."

Charles hadn't expected her to. He was something that put on more weight than the thousands of pounds Kurt must've already put on her shoulders.

"Mom is... busy." Charles said.

"Mom doesn't care," Hank hissed. "I don't think she ever has, at least... She did until..."

He went blank and dreamy. Charles got off the swing and leaned on the pole.

"Hank, do you have any friends at school?" he asked. Hank wiped his nose and shook his head. "Have you ever tried?" He shook his head again.

"Do _you_ have any friends?" Hank said.

"Touche," he murmured. Hank was right, though. The German kid wasn't his friend, and neither was Sebastian, or anyone for that matter.

Speaking of the German kid... Oh shit.

He was walking over to Raven.

Raven and the baby.

Fuck.

Charles started to sprint over until he heard, "It's alright. I think it hurt me more than the baby. His name is Lil' Scottie."

"Hi." the German kid said. "I'm sorry the ball hit you..."

"Raven." his sister said, and she was blushing. _Blushing_ _._ Charles gritted his teeth and proceeded to walk over, but the boy looked at him blankly. Raven handed him back the basketball. He looked at Charles for a second more, then ran back to the court.

Charles growled a few curses under his breath then walked back to the house, through the kitchen and into his room before his mother or Kurt could say anything.

Stupid, stupid German kid.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik gives the boy some comics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meow
> 
> feedback would be nice if you have any

 

**ERIK**

 

He was going to tell him he did a good job on his poem. Which was like, the biggest understatement of all times. He was absolutely captivating, with his accent and his eyes and his belief. He didn't read it like an assignment, he was the only one who didn't read it like an assignment. He read it like it was his own personal mantra. Erik felt himself hanging onto every word with the promise of it being better than the last. He'd _never_ done that before with people, only with songs. But, in its own way, that poem _was_ a song.

Mr. Allerdyce hugged him when he was finished, which was totally against the Code of Conduct.

_Hey. You did a good job in English._ Erik wanted to say.

Or, _I'm in your English class. The poem you read was cool_ _._

Maybe, _You're in Mr. Allerdyce's class, right? I thought so._

Erik shook his head as he stared out the window. The new boy was a mystery that even Sherlock Holmes couldn't solve.

 

**CHARLES**

 

The bloody German kid totally knew he was reading his comics. He sometimes even looked up before he turned the page, like he was _that polite_. Charles appreciated the gesture, but at the same time he didn't want him to do it. It made him feel guilty, for some reason. Like he was doing all these things for him (giving him a notebook, letting him sit down, letting him read his comics) and all Charles does is glare at him when he apologizes to his little sister when he accidentally hits her with a basketball.

He definitely wasn't one of them, the bus demons. Yet, he was still in with them somehow, because Sebastian and Emma didn't torment him whenever he sat next to him. That made Charles want to sit next to him all the time.

This morning, when he got on the bus, it kind of felt like he was waiting for him. Charles shifted his eyes, still embarrassed about the basketball incident from the day before.

He was holding a comic called _Watchmen_ , and it looked so ugly that Charles didn't even want to read it. He shouldn't be anyway, so what harm was it doing?

(He liked it best when he read _X-Men_ , even though he didn't really know what was happening ninety percent of the time; the _X-Men_ were worse than _General Hospital_ _._ It took him weeks to figure out that Scott Summers was Cyclops-but it didn't take him long to figure out he didn't like him very much-and he was still extremely confused about the Wolverine's position. He was made of metal, and Magneto could control metal... What?)

But Charles didn't have anything else to do, so he found his eyes wandering over to the ugly comic, and he was reading. And they were at school. Which was weird, because they were only halfway through.

Which totally sucked, because he'd read the rest of it during lunch or something and he'd bring out something boring or nothing at all, and Charles would have to listen to Sebastian rant about vampires and Emma's step-father.

Except he didn't.

The German kid opened _Watchmen_ exactly where they'd left off. Charles felt himself blush and his eyes widen. He swore the other boy smirked slightly.

Damn him.

They were still reading it when they got to Charles' stop, and Charles almost didn't want to get off. There was so much going on, and he hated leaving off in anything where there was that much action and color. He mournfully got up, but the kid was handing him the comic. Charles tried to refuse, but he'd already turned away. He shoved it in his backpack, carefully, and got off the bus.

Damn him to hell.

 

**ERIK**

 

What if he didn't give it back?

That would probably cancel out the "Jesus-fuck sit down" and "Fucking take it" thing, right? So he'd be even?

It wouldn't cancel it out.

The previous day had been odd, Erik thought. He had accidentally tripped on the basketball and kicked it at the girl with the baby-Lil' Scottie, she had told him-and when he went over to apologize and get the ball, the boy was storming over there like he'd done something wrong. Why the hell was he mad? He didn't know the girl-Raven-or the baby. Or maybe he did. Was he trying to protect them? From what-Erik's smile? He wasn't going to try and kill them or anything, but did it look like he was going to? Erik was going to have to practice smiling normally in the mirror.

But what if he didn't give the comic back? What if he didn't get to finish the first issue of _Watchmen_ because the stupid kid next to him didn't give it back? Damn generosity.

What if he _did_ give it back, though? What would he say then? Thanks? Erik pressed his face into the glass window and growled.

 

**CHARLES**

 

When he got on the bus the next morning, he handed him the comic and he took it. They didn't say anything for the rest of the day.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik form some sort of comic bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo yo yo

 

**CHARLES**

 

The _next_ morning when Charles got on the bus, there was a stack of comics on his seat. He was confused for a second. Was he putting them there because he didn't want him sitting there, had no space to put them anywhere else, or were they for him?

Charles hoped it wasn't the former, because there was no where else to sit. He gingerly picked the comics up and held them a few inches from his lap, because he had no verification that they were intended for him. But then the German kid looked up at him with his eyebrows arched up, like, "What are you waiting for?" or something like that. Charles tucked them inside his textbooks for safe-keeping and put them in his backpack. He wasn't going to read them in front of him; it would be like admitting something.

But he thought about the comics in his backpack the entire day, and as soon as he got home he climbed up into his bunk and pulled them out. They all had the same title- _Swamp Thing._

Charles ate dinner sitting cross-legged in his bunk, careful not to spill anything on the pristine comics. (As if a grilled cheese sandwich could spill.) There wasn't even a bent corner or anything. Charles admired the way the German kid took care of his possessions, and Charles thought himself to do the same if he  _had_ possessions to begin with. Raven had always called him a neat freak when they lived in the old house, because he always made his bed and didn't leave any dirty clothes on the floor. She didn't know that that was because he _had_ to be. Kurt would always call him out on it and forbid him to eat or take a bath if he didn't. So Charles adjusted.

It wasn't that he was afraid of Kurt, but he _was_ afraid of him getting angry, because that meant his mother would be placed in the equation. Kurt didn't start hitting her until Charles was gone, Hank told him such. He had thrown Charles around some, and definitely yelled at him many times. Now, in this disgusting hovel, it seemed ten times worse. Like Kurt was waiting for all his anger to build up so he could save it for the perfect opportunity.

When it was time to go to bed, Charles turned the light on after his brothers and sister had gone to sleep. They'd learned to sleep through a lot, so it meant Charles could turn the light on or break a beer bottle against the wall and they probably wouldn't wake up.

Charles was only distantly conscious of Kurt watching TV in the living room, so when he jerked the bedroom door open Charles almost went into cardiac arrest. He had this wild look in his eyes like he was anticipating Charles breaking out of the window, but he saw he was only reading. He mumbled to turn the light off and let the little kids sleep. Charles exhaled a sigh of relief. There was enough light coming in through the window to read, anyway.

 

  
**ERIK**

 

He read stuff as fast as Erik gave it to him. Sometimes, when Erik was incredibly bored, he would imagine his eyes flitting across the panels. He wasn't sure  _why,_ he just did. And in the morning, when he handed it back, he held it like it was some precious artifact. Erik appreciated that, but it wasn't necessary. You wouldn't think he'd even touched him if it weren't for the smell.

Every book Erik lent the new boy came back smelling like something pleasant. Like Hanukkah or the spices put into pumpkin pie. He didn't smell like that though, the boy. He smelled like vanilla extract. It was... kind of nice.

He'd read all of his Alan Moore in less than three weeks. Erik was a bit envious, or worried. Either the new boy was an incredibly gifted reader or had a lot of time on his hands. Maybe both. He never saw him outside after the basketball incident, and to be honest, he was kind of glad. He wasn't sure what he'd say. Now he was handing him X-comics five or six at a time, and he could tell he liked them because he saw the characters names in the swirling sentences written in the pages of Erik's old notebook.

They didn't talk on the bus, but sometimes communicated by glances and breathing. A huffy breath meant Sebastian was being an idiot, which was often, and a slightly contented sigh meant that he had been silenced by a witty remark. Eye contact was used sparingly, and it usually meant that the new boy was about to get off the bus. It was kind of like a goodbye, but not quite.

Erik would _have_ to talk to him today-he forgot the stack of comics he left on his nightstand. He woke up later than usual, so he didn't have time to eat breakfast or brush his teeth, much less grab them. The not being able to brush his teeth made him incredibly self-conscious, because the boy was only six inches away from him. He quickly tried to think of ways of how not to speak, both for his benefit and the boy's.

But when he got on the bus and handed him yesterday's comics, all Erik did was shrug. The boy sat down without so much as an eyebrow raise. He was wearing a large shirt-well, it probably wasn't _that_ large, it was just large on him. Almost _everything_ sagged on him. The shirt had small clown-fish on them, and he had to tie a belt around his waist to keep the shirt from exposing his chest. Which meant he was wearing _two_ belts, one for his shirt and one for his slacks, which were much too big, even for Erik. The belt was cinched so tight it must've hurt. His nails were ragged and short, like he bit them, but Erik didn't think he did. They were just cut badly. His mom would've scorned at them. _Doesn't know how to take care of them,_ she would say. _His mother should not let him go out in public like that._ Except it would sound like: _Hees muzzer should not let heem go out een publeec like zat._

The new boy stared down at the books in his lap. Maybe he thought Erik was mad at him. Erik hoped not. He stared at his books too-they were covered in quotes as well, but only on the particular subject. Science was littered with Einstein and Oppenheimer and other scientific theories, English was scribbled with Shakespeare and Edgar Allan Poe, History with Thomas Jefferson and Winston Churchill.

He flipped open to his English notebook, and Erik saw _How Soon is Now?_ written at the top of one of the pages.

"You like the Smiths?" he asked, gesturing to the page. The boy blushed.

"I don't know," he said, "I've never really listened to them."

"So you're just pretending to like them?" Erik said disdainfully.

"Yeah. Trying to impress the locals, and whatnot." he murmured. He sighed and closed his notebook. "It's not like I can just listen to them like you can."

Erik didn't know what to say to that. The air soured around them. He turned his head and looked out the window for the rest of the bus ride.

When he got to English, he tried to catch his eye, but the boy wouldn't look at him. It looked like he was trying to ignore him so hard he wasn't even paying attention to Mr. Allerdyce.

Mr. Allerdyce kept trying to call on him; he was his new favorite target whenever things got drowsy in the classroom. Today they were supposed to be discussing _Romeo and Juliet,_ but no one was paying attention.

"You don't seem troubled by their deaths, Mister Marko," he said. The boy bristled. Erik wondered why.

"No, I'm not," he murmured.

"What's that?"

The new kid narrowed his blue eyes at him. "I'm not troubled by their deaths."

"It doesn't strike you as sad?" Mr. Allerdyce exclaimed, placing a hand over his heart. "It doesn't bring some sort of sorrow at the sight of two young lovers, dead? This is the ultimate story of woe, Mister Marko." The boy bristled again, but Mr. Allerdyce did not notice.

"No, it doesn't." he said. "It appears to me that were just two rich, spoiled children that were accustomed to getting everything they so desired. In this instance, they only _think_ they want each other. It's a byproduct of receiving every wish. It happened then, it happens now."

Mr. Allerdyce froze and furrowed his brow. "Then why has it survived?" he asked.

"Because Shakespeare is renowned in other plays. Same with artists and songs: if the artist is successful, most of their songs are, even the lesser ones." he said.

"No! Someone else, someone with a beating heart, tell me why this tragic story of broken love has been so cherished throughout history!" he wailed, throwing his arms above his head in an overly-extravagant show of theatrics. "Tell me, Mister Lehnsherr!"

Erik hated speaking in class. The boy frowned at him, then looked away. Erik swore he felt himself blush.

"Because..." he said quietly, biting his lip. "Because people want to remember what it's like to be young and in love?"

Mr. Allerdyce leaned up against the blackboard, looking utterly defeated by his student's lack of romantic knowledge.

"Is that right?" Erik asked.

"Oh yes, Mister Lehnsherr, it's definitely correct," he said. "I honestly don't know if that's why _Romeo and Juliet_ has survived all these years, but yes. It is right."

He didn't acknowledge Erik in history class, but he never did.

On the bus that afternoon, he was already there. He got up to let him have his seat by the window, then surprised him by speaking. It was more like breathing with words, it was so quiet.

"It's more like a wish list," he mumbled.

"What?"

"They're songs I'd like to hear. I can't, though. But I'd like to."

"If you've never heard of the Smiths, then how do even know about them?" Erik asked.

"Friends. My step-father's magazines." he said defensively. "I don't know. Around, I guess."

"Why don't you just listen to them?"

"I already _told_ you, I can't." he said.

"Well, why not?"

"I just can't."

"That isn't a reason..."

"There _is_ a reason, I just don't want to talk about it." he hissed. He looked the same when Mr. Allerdyce had said his name. "Besides, it's not like they play them on Sweet 98 or anything."

When Erik looked at him blankly, he rolled his eyes. _"God,"_ he murmured.

They didn't talk the rest of the way home.

That night, while Erik did his homework, he made a tape with his favorite Smiths songs, and a few songs by Echo & the Bunnymen and Joy Division.

He put the tape along with five more X-comics in his backpack and went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback? At all? 
> 
> I would really like some, just so I know that you guys like it and stuff... Especially critiques, please give me those if there are any, which there must be
> 
> Also, could you suggest a new title? I'm trying to use a quote from the story, be that Eleanor and Park or this one, so if someone could be a dear and suggest something, I would be very appreciative :)
> 
> I got a new computer for my birthday too, so yay! (Which means there may be typos, so...)
> 
> Oh, and for those of you who would know, is Edie Lehnsherr's German accent correct? I tried, but I'm not exactly sure.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where I deviate from the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the support you've been giving me! I'm trying to keep up with the chapters and everything, it's in my best interest to anyway.

 

 

**ERIK**

 

"Yes, I think so..." she said. "That Marko boy has always been troublesome." she sighed. Erik froze. Did she mean... The new boy? Troublesome? "How he ended up with that wife, I never could've guessed." Erik let out his breath. He obviously meant someone else with the same last name.

"The house with the Rottweiler and the Isuzu?"

"Ja," she said. Since his dad was born in Germany and lived there for fifteen years, he knew the language inside and out. He went back to visit family and met his mom. Since both knew German, so did Erik. It was kind of cool being bilingual-it meant he could cuss out Sebastian in another language. And that he could communicate with those in Germany, but he mostly appreciated the former.

"I've heard the family got another kid," his dad said. "A boy, maybe Erik's age. Opal Frost says he looks sickly."

"That Frost woman spreads gossip faster than wildfire," Edie snapped back. 

"I don't think she would lie about something like that, Edie." his dad said comfortingly. His mom hissed a German curse under her breath. "Anyway, what did Marko do?"

"Apparently he was involved in some incident near the Rail," she said. "Gunshots, driving under the influence. Nasty things."

"Did he get arrested?"

"Fined, I think. But you said there was a boy living there?"

"Well, there are a lot of children. I'm not sure what he's doing in that damned house." Jakob said with a growl.

"No cursing!"

"Liebling, I barely think that counts." he replied. Erik knew the conversation was over at that point, so he got out his homework and opened to a new page, but didn't write anything. Instead, he stared at the blank sheet of paper processing what he had just overheard. He knew Kurt Marko, not well, but enough to know that if he went over to the house with the dead bushes and peeling paint that he probably would only make it back with one arm or a body full of bullets. Now he knew what the boy meant about not being able to listen to music like Erik could. He literally, legitimately, _couldn't_ _._

"Erik, could you come in here please?" his mom called suddenly. Erik almost fell off his bed.

"Y-Yeah!" he stammered, tripping over his backpack in his hurry to get to the kitchen. His dad was now reading the newspaper and his mom was cutting up tomatoes.

"Is there a new boy at your school?" she asked. Erik stood dumbfounded for a second. Why would she be asking? It wasn't like she needed to know, and while curiosity wasn't prohibited Erik didn't exactly want to talk about it. Him, he corrected.

"Well, there are a few...," Erik said in order to avoid the question.

"He would ride your bus." his dad supplied.

"Oh. Um. Yes," he said. He wasn't sure why he was so reluctant to talk about the new kid. "Why?"

"Does he look like he's being mistreated?" asked his mom. _Yes,_ he thought. _Sometimes his bandanas slip from his wrist and I can see a bruise, sometimes two in the same spot. He looks ignored, neglected. He's so skinny it seems like he hasn't eaten in weeks. Maybe he hasn't. I don't see him eat lunch very often; only on Tuesdays and Friday's._

"No," Erik said instead. "No, he doesn't."

"Good," Edie said. "We wouldn't want to deprive him of help he needs."

Erik felt something akin to guilt all the way through dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> So you know in DOFP when Pietro asks Erik if he knows karate
> 
> The real answer is yes. Yes he does.


End file.
